Favorite Movies and Sweet Dreams
by LJConnelly
Summary: After a high-stakes case and almost dying twice, even the toughest heros need some comfort. Set immediately after the end of Countdown. Rated T for use of alcohol.


Beckett left the station with Josh, and they drove back to his apartment, which was arguably much nicer than hers – he could afford it with a surgeon's salary. She was glad for the noise of the wind on the motorcycle, which allowed her to be silent rather than trying to make conversation. She remained quiet once they got to the apartment. Sensing her need to unwind, Josh grabbed her a beer from the fridge. She nodded her thanks and downed it; Josh raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Eventually they made small talk – Beckett asked Josh what he did at the hospital that day, letting him do the talking. Around nine, she could take it no longer, and went to bed early. Josh stayed up for a while, reading the news. Beckett scrolled through TV stations, not looking for anything in particular – just a distraction. Time passed slowly and hazily.

She wasn't sure when it was she finally dozed off, but she slept fitfully. She woke up around one in the morning, enfolded in Josh's arms. Her mind was racing, and a tight, fluttery feeling was rising in her chest. She sat up, holding her hand to her chest and frowning, brow furrowed. She knew this feeling from years past, shortly after her mother's death. It could only be an anxiety attack. She took shallow breaths, trying in vain to snap out of it. Soon Josh was awake.

"Kate, what's the matter?"

"I have to go," she said.

"Go where?" he asked sleepily.

"I've gotta go home," she said, throwing back the blankets and starting to get out of bed. She looked down and noticed that she hadn't even changed into pajamas.

"Right now?" said Josh skeptically. "What's wrong? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she said. "Maybe later."

"Maybe later you have to go, or maybe later you'll want to talk about it?" Josh blinked, trying to coax himself out of the sleepy stupor.

"Talk later. I have to go," she repeated, searching the room for her purse. "I just need to be alone."

Josh looked more than a little hurt. "Okay," he said. "At least let me drive you home."

"Okay," said Beckett.

She had found her purse, and looked anxious to get out the door. Josh pulled on a leather jacket over his pajamas, and they left the house in a hurry. Back at Beckett's apartment, she kissed him goodbye, waited until he had closed the door and she heard his steps down the stairs, then sat on the couch and broke down sobbing. She had come close to death before; it was a hazard she understood and accepted when she became a police officer. She had been shot at, cut, held hostage, nearly blown up by a stalker, and less than twenty-fours ago, locked in a freezer.

There was something markedly different about this particular near-death experience, though. It wasn't just her life that was at stake. Twice, in under twenty-four hours, she almost died at Castle's side. As terrifying as it had been, she couldn't deny that it had been a bonding experience like no other. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Even aside from _their _shared experience, it was unsettling to think of the entire city she loved going up in smoke. She would die. Castle would die. Josh would die. Her father would die. At least Castle would have known – the rest of the people she loved wouldn't have even had a chance. That was why she had to get away from Josh, she realized. He still had no idea, and it killed her that she couldn't tell him. It felt so unfair, running away from him in the middle of the night, but she couldn't stand it anymore.

Yet, she realized alone wasn't quite what she needed. There was one person she wanted to talk to, although she was hesitant to wake him up. Reluctantly, she picked up her phone and dialed his number.

* * *

Meanwhile, across town, Castle was sitting on the couch, sharing a bottle of scotch with Martha. He had called her and Alexis home from the Hamptons as soon as he stepped out of the precinct. Although he couldn't tell them why he had sent them out of the city in the first place, he needed them home as soon as possible.

He couldn't get Beckett's words out of his head: _"It means we have a chance."_ He would have liked the phrase if it had meant what he wished it meant. But, it was the wrong "we." He shook his head for the thousandth time. They had been so _together_ in the freezer. He had held her close, begged her to stay, and she been so close to telling him something, something so important, but then she had finally succumbed to the cold. When they woke up, he was looking, not into Kate's eyes, but at Josh. It was all wrong.

"You need therapy, kiddo," said Martha, snapping him out of his reverie. She hated seeing her son so upset. Moreover, he still wouldn't tell them why they had been sent away in the first place. She wondered if that was the reason for his angst, or if there was something else.

Castle finished his glass of scotch and poured another. "Tell me everything you did in the Hamptons," he said, even though he had heard the stories twice already.

* * *

Beckett flinched with every ring of the phone. Was she doing the right thing? Should she really be calling him at this hour? Finally, the ringing stopped, and a sleepy voice answered.

"Katie?"

"Hi, Dad," said Beckett. Her hands were shaking.

"Is everything okay?"

Beckett bit her lip. Technically, in a New-York-is-no-longer-about-to-get-blown-up-by-a-dirty-bomb kind of way, yes, everything was okay. But she couldn't tell him that.

"I'm okay, Dad," she said, at last. At least she was in one piece. "It's just been a hell of a day."

There was a long pause. "You sound pretty shaken up," said Jim.

"Yeah."

Another pause. "Do you want me to come over there?"

Beckett hesitated, then nodded. Then she realized, obviously, that her father couldn't see her nod over the phone. "Yes," she said softly.

"I'll be right there."

Beckett hung up the phone, then went to the bathroom to take a shower. After washing away what could be washed away by water, she put on yoga pants and pulled her wet hair into a messy bun, then wrapped herself in a blanket while she waited for her dad.

* * *

"The thing is... mother..." slurred Castle, stretching out lavishly on the sofa, "is that I _know_... _I know_ she's not happy."

"Young love, Richard!" said Martha with a sweeping gesture, sloshing scotch out of the glass and onto the hardwood. The spill went unnoticed by either of them. "Blinder than a bat with no ears! If she thinks she loves him, she's going to go on thinking she loves him until something, some mighty powerful something slaps her in the face and proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that she doesn't."

Castle blinked, then took another swallow of scotch. "Are you saying... I should slap Beckett in the face?" His drunken mind mulled over his mother's elaborate sentence, trying to make sense of it.

"No, silly," she said. She, too, gulped down most of the rest of her drink. "It's a _metaphor!_"

"Of course..." Castle finished glass number – well, whatever glass he was on, and set the glass on the table. "Damn," he added. "Bottle's empty."

Jim Beckett walked into Kate's apartment, carrying a pizza. "I didn't know if you were hungry," he said, "but Turk's was still open and it smelled amazing."

"Thanks," said Kate, taking the pizza and setting it on the coffee table. It _did_ smell amazing. They sat down, and started eating the pizza straight out of the box.

Jim knew his daughter well enough not to ask questions. If she wanted to talk, she would. Instead, he reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a disc.

"I brought your favorite movie," he said, showing her the disc.

Kate smiled. "I haven't seen this in years," she said. She stood up from the couch and popped the disc in the DVD player, then sat down and leaned her head on her dad's shoulder while they watched the movie.

* * *

At five o'clock in the morning, just as the sky was beginning to show the faintest hint of turning light, Castle finally fell asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, Martha stood up quietly, tucking a fleece blanket around her sleeping son's shoulders. Halfway up the stairs, she paused and looked back at him. "Sweet dreams, Ricky," she murmured, then continued upstairs to bed.


End file.
